


Promise

by xCake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (It's flowery smut too), Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, The Holy Trifecta!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCake/pseuds/xCake
Summary: As soon as your fingers wrap around him, Bucky takes in a sharp breath and his muscles go taut again. Always ready to spring into action. Fight or flight.“It’s okay,” you breathe against his sweat-slicked skin. “Let me take care of you.”[ Bucky x Reader ]
Relationships: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 170





	Promise

James Buchanan Barnes isn’t weak.

He may be damaged, but he’s not weak. His strength shines from within; you can see it in his eyes every day as he pushes forward to survive. He may have made it through the war, but the war will never really be over. Not to him.

Battles with German soldiers and enemies of Hydra are easily replaced by the horrors of his past – things he’ll never forget, but that’s less of a life sentence and more of a choice.

Despite the terrible things he’s done, he doesn’t want to forget. He wants to remember. He wants to honour them, the great number of lives snuffed out by his hand. It doesn’t matter who was at fault. Too many victims who didn’t deserve what happened to them, but they will forever be remembered – honoured – never forgotten.

A promise. 

It’s the least he can do.

And so he pushes forward every day, but his strength is physical, too. Thick, corded muscle so solid to the touch, never mind his left arm. Vibranium. It’s a weapon first and foremost, but also a permanent reminder of the past. Cold metal plates shift like tectonics and he reacts in the same way he would in an earthquake, instinctively – except now, he uses it not to take lives, but to save, to shield, to protect. 

Recompense for the horrors. A promise.

It’s the least he can do. 

No, Bucky Barnes isn’t weak, but under your fingertips, he is. Toned muscles jump as your fingers slowly travel down his back to the hem of his shirt, and when you start to lift, he shivers.

“It’s okay,” you soothe, kissing a delicate trail against freshly-revealed skin. Up, up, up the soft fabric slides, followed by the wet drag of your lips along his spine and you hear his breathing quicken, feel him tense against you – unconscious resistance against the tenderness and care and pure, unbridled _love_ you always offer him.

It’s not something Bucky thinks he deserves, but he does. 

What he doesn’t deserve is the fear, the panic, the paranoia, so this is the least _you_ can do.

“It’s okay,” you promise once more as you tug his shirt over his head, and then you smooth a few stray locks of hair away from his neck. He’s broken out into a nervous sweat, but you know he’ll stop you if it’s too much. He’s done it before.

This time, however, he pushes forward, pushes through.

Trailing salty-sweet kisses to the junction of his neck and shoulder all the way up to his ear, you feel his tension start to melt away. Your hands caress the front of his body, gentle touches that make him relax against you, make him lean into you, and in that moment you realize that he needs more. He needs it like he needs air.

Affection.

He’ll never ask, but it’s what he craves.

Love.

Your fingers curl around the chain of his dog tags, to take them off, too, and his hand shoots up to grab your wrist – not hard, not painful, but still a warning.

“Don’t,” he rasps.

Not yet. In his mind, he’s still at war.

You surrender in an instant and let the chain fall back against his chest. “Okay, Buck. I won’t. I promise.”

Hesitantly, Bucky pulls your hand to his mouth, then, where he presses a kiss to the back of it: an apology, perhaps, but you don’t need one. You might not be able to understand, but you can certainly empathize.

This is for him. All for him.

He needs it.

You know that he must realize it too when he brings your palm back against his chest, directly over his heart – and then he lets out a shaky breath as he lets you go. He’ll never ask for more, but it’s what he means.

Your soft touches drift lower as you pepper kisses to his shoulder-blades – and when you reach the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingertips just briefly dip inside. The moment you feel the goosebumps raise on his skin, you whisper, “Is this okay?”

Bucky audibly swallows the lump in his throat, but his voice still comes out rough and uneven. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

You hum in approval, but you go even slower than before – slide your fingertips in between elastic and flesh just a little further with each pass until your entire hand is beneath the fabric, and that’s when you feel him.

He’s hard – aching.

He needs this.

As soon as your fingers wrap around him, Bucky takes in a sharp breath and his muscles go taut again. Always ready to spring into action. Fight or flight.

“Shh,” you breathe against his sweat-slicked skin. “Let me take care of you.” 

As always, it’s your gentleness that eases his frayed nerves. He relaxes again, at least until the first pump of your wrist; then he stumbles. His palm slams loudly against the chest of drawers in front of him: a means of holding himself up, but it keeps him grounded, too, even as the objects atop the dresser clatter and fall.

Another pump, and he leans forward just a little – holds more of his weight against the wood, and at the same time, he relinquishes a modicum of control to you.

A third pump, and a fourth, and then you swipe your thumb over his leaking slit. He jolts – gasps – hunches over even further. Offers you more of him, more trust, more control.

“That’s it,” you encourage him, and he responds with a quiet groan. The sound makes makes your blood burn with desire, but you force it down. 

This is for him. All for him.

His breathing becomes more and more laboured as the seconds pass, especially as you start to employ more technique and skill that sends him reeling. Bucky deserves this, you know – he deserves to be kissed and loved all over, with the tender words and touches he’s been so starved without. 

He needs you.

So soft and pliable, he plays into your hands like putty until his body tenses up once again, but this time it’s because he’s close. You can tell by the way his breaths suddenly go shallow and quick, shaky whispers of your name combined with swears and pleas and proclamations that make your heart race in tandem with his pulse against your palm.

_God, you’re so— so good to me—_

_Don’t stop. Please don’t stop._

_Fuck, I can’t— I’m gonna—_

“That’s it,” you tell him again, sweet words punctuated with more kisses, more affection, more love despite the slick heat between your thighs. “There you go. I've got you.”

The sensations help, of course they do, but what sends Bucky over the edge is _you_. Always you.

You push his sweatpants down just in time for his hips to stutter, and then he throbs, pulses, and the warmth coats your hand. Your name escapes his lips like a desperate prayer; no matter how hushed, you can still hear him over the sound of the dresser splintering under his tight grip, metal fingertips digging into wood. It splits right along the grain.

No, he’s not weak.

Your strokes slow to a stop, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you hold him, press your body against his back so that he can feel you, feel your touch, feel that you’re still there. Just like you’ll always be, no matter what.

“I’m sorry,” he starts to stay about the mess, but you give his length a gentle squeeze – a reminder.

There’s no guilt to be had here. Just love.

And then you press one final kiss to his skin before you step back, but you don’t leave him completely. Rather, you shift just far enough to take a couple of tissues from the box atop the dresser. The mess is wiped away, sticky and white, but the trust remains. His trust.

You peer up at him to gauge his reaction, to make sure he’s still okay, and what you find is that the expression on his face is relaxed, possibly even peaceful despite the embarrassed flush on his cheeks. It’s not from exertion, no; you can tell by the hesitation in his eyes that wasn’t there before, hidden under a thin layer of half-lidded bliss.

But Bucky pushes forward, pushes through.

“I love you,” he says, then – bashfully, almost, like the words are foreign on his tongue.

They are, and your heart skips a beat.

Slowly, just like always, you stand up on your tiptoes to kiss him properly this time. You’re worked up, absolutely, but this is about him and you make a point to keep it chaste. His lips are pliable for you – new. You’ve kissed him a hundred times, now, but he doesn’t flinch like he used to.

Instead, he trusts you. 

It’s the least he can do.

When you pull away, you can’t help but smile as you look up through your lashes into those pretty baby blues. No hesitation, now. Instead, more sweet words are what you offer, because they’re true. “I love you too.”

He’s not weak. He said he loves you, said it outright, and you know he means it. 

It’s his promise to you.


End file.
